At The Finish Line
by Reyavie
Summary: "When did you realize he was the man for you, Mrs. Hackett?" "Eh, I'd have to say somewhere between sending me to get killed and promising to make ships tapdance for me. A man who does that has to be special."


A.N. - My Christmas gift for Letticiae at the CMDA secret santa exchange. Merry Christmas, hun :)!

**xxxXXXxxx**

Steven Hackett was not a romantic man. He was no-nonsense, strict, logical, empathetic and definitely not a romantic man.

Clara Shepard was not a romantic woman. She was light-hearted, practical, emotionally-stunted and definitely not a romantic woman.

They were not conventional. Hackett had never taken her out on a date nor had Shepard dropped off after work for movies and dinner. His calls raged more on the side of '_disaster is coming, please fix it'_ while hers 'rollercoasted' between '_screwed up, please fix it_' and '_all is well and dead_'. Some days, the Admiral wasn't sure he could call it a relationship since calling at inane hours of the morning to get her into another dangerous situation couldn't really be situated in the vicinity of trying to be romantic.

And better not mention the one time he asked her to save a friend. A female friend. Her immediate reply had been to ask her if he had jumped her at any moment so she would have an idea if she was worth saving. Then asked if he was really sure that she hadn't been a romantic partner. Then a bed fellow. It had kept going for twenty minutes.

Other days, she dropped by virtually out of nowhere with a smug grin and a bad joke when he needed it; especially when duty seemed heavy as a battleship against his shoulders. Other days he even felt like a normal man, struggling to find roses – which she would laugh over – or chocolates – which she would devour before the hour was out – or understanding that when a woman is upset he shouldn't tell her what to do and instead be a resounding wall for her to bounce her frustration on.

They were not conventional. They weren't all that bad either.

The assault on Earth had approached and Hackett wished many times that they were. The thing with dating – God help him, that word sounded as wrong as boyfriend to his rather mature mind – someone who actively courted danger was that she wouldn't go anywhere but in the frontlines. And he needed her there because, most of all, more than being his girlfriend – good God, that didn't sound any better – she was a good soldier and he needed those.

His hand had touched the communicator and fell to the side enough times for his aid to think he was having spasms. Everything in him said to turn back, to wait, that she would be right there if he called her. But she wasn't and she wouldn't be. She was barreling through the enemy lines while he put the many before the one, duty before himself. He took his place directing the fleet and pushed the will to join the front lines with a steady hand. News arrived from different ships and his mind jumped from place to place lost in the middle of a giant chessboard.

Who had time to grieve and worry? He had the time to breathe between tugging that tower to the side so the peon could reach the other side of the board and check the King.

"Steven?" And then he breathed more deeply.

The Admiral had no idea how much he wanted to hear his name with that voice until that moment. Brutally stubborn and splintering at the edges – every trace of it ripping pieces of something right underneath his ribcage – but bright, alive and annoyed.

"I'm here. Did you make it in?"

Her breathing. What was going on with her breathing? Did she have medigel? How many broken ribs were hugging her lungs tighter to get her to gasp like that? His fingers tightened impossibly around the arms of his chair.

"Yep," she continued crisply. "Staring up at Mount Doom. Looks disturbingly like an air-conditioning gone wary and that's not very impressive. Did I mention it was being controlled by the kid from Artificial intelligence?"

"I only accept references from the second millennia, Shepard."

Didn't matter where she was and whether or not she was tapdancing on Death's door. Shepard would be sticking her tongue out at the communicator like he could actually see her.

"You suck." Clara grumbled into his ear, complete with a scratchy sound which seemed as if a few broken teeth had been thrown into the equation. "Well, honey, I just called to say my job sucks. I want my resignation and a good severance package. Also, a slave and a house on the beach."

She snickered, cursed, cursed due to cursing and ended up laughing again before controlling her ragged breathing out of sheer pure stubbornness.

"Yeah. I want a candlelight dinner this time, Steven," she continued obstinately. "None of that eating in the mass while people wonder if we're planning to conquer the galaxy. I want to see your house and meet your kid. What was his name again? Brian? Is that chick I got killed his mom? God, I kill a lot of people nowadays. Have I mentioned I'm sort of tired?"

Clara. The Lady of All Understatements.

"You haven't," he said simply.

"I'm very tired. It's annoying."

Only Clara would describe dying as annoying. The Admiral said nothing though. He could close his eyes like _so_ and breathe slowly like that and listen to her raspy voice play into his ears as she slipped away and kept going. He could but he didn't because all around him the Reapers danced and the fleets still asked for directions from the chessmaster. His job, as she so eloquently put it, did suck as well.

"Do you know what to do now?" The Admiral took over while Old Steven got smacked into the back of his mind. "Is there anything we can from the outside?"

"No." Short, blunt and the point. "I shoot it. Stuff dies."

But she didn't move. He couldn't hear her steps or any sign that she was doing anything bar standing. She was just waiting.

"Aren't you going to tell me anything bar blow it up?" Clara asked, childishly as she never was. Well, what was he supposed to say? Go ahead and shoot it now and don't forget you signed on the dotted line to give your life away? "I am not writing your speeches. You know how to make speeches. Tell me something. Tell me anything. Preferably heartwarming."

Why? He wasn't Anderson, driving her forward and then running right after. The Admiral took a deep breath – and the Asari cruiser which exploded at his right – looked all around for the words – Joker screaming over the communicator about something and he knew what he had to do.

"You want a tearful goodbye?"

In between the beginning of that conversation and that moment, Steven had rose from his chair and gone to the closest window. The Citadel shone in all its half destroyed glory just outside and it was almost like looking at the red-haired woman.

"No, that'd be damned depressing," she snickered into his ears. "You could sing though."

"That won't ever happen."

"Dance?"

"I am directing a fleet at the moment, Clara."

"Have the ships tapdance for me. With their lights on."

Any other moment, she would have laughed and he with her.

"I'll have Joker tapdance for you in his underwear if that's what you want."

"Cream swimwear?"

"With cherries on top." That should have been it. He was the Admiral and she was the Commander and his orders were her orders. But he was also the man and she was also the woman and she was dying. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring everyone who kept staring up at him as if they knew exactly what was at stake. "I would stay if I could. You know that."

You lived by letting others die in your place. When he had been younger, he would have never done such a thing. But he was old and tired and the years had taught him better. If there was anyone else to take his place, he would do the heroic thing. There wasn't and he couldn't do it.

"As if I would let you do my job. I'm pretty good at it, Admiral." Her tone turned brighter and ridiculously happy for the whole situation. "Get everyone out. I'm about to hobbit all over this place."

What else was there to do? Feelings were bluntly pushed aside because the end was always in the forefront of his thoughts, always the end and never the means even when the means were some part of him he didn't want to let go of.

"Order the retreat."

And yet he did.

**xxxXXXxxx**

At the end of the story, the hero won. Everything got solved, the edges of the ropes were tied, all subjects were discussed and all issues were dissolved. It was clearly obvious that Steven Hackett was no hero because in no heroic story he knew of did a ship ended up crashing against another while fleeing before smacking head first into a moon. Also, in none of those stories did the middle-aged heroic man (shut up) end up unconscious for an undefined amount of time.

Also, his head hurt.

"It's about damned time."

And that was an awful greeting to wake up to.

The voice was upbeat; tired _and_ annoyingly upbeat. Like one of those people. You know, those who could and would jump out of bed with a grin and an offer to go jogging. Hackett forced his mind into gear, trying to make it seem less like someone stuck waiting in a never-ending traffic line on the way to work. "How is it that I was the one stuck in a falling alien-made construction into a planet while severely injured and I'm the one to wake up first?" The voice continued blandly as its owner found her place quite comfortably at the end of his bed.

"I'm old, tired and one hundred percent human package."

"Now that's just an educated way to imply I'm a cyborg."

As opposed to the self-assumed nickname of Robocop.

"I try, Commander."

Her fingers slipped between his; shorter, calloused and bandaged at odd intervals. They tightened and tightened and he didn't let go even though the hold was strong enough between the both of them to grind bones together.

"Does anyone need me outside?"

Clara ignored his battered body groaning with every movement she made and found her way into his side. And he ignored that very same fact to tug her closer, enough to hear her breathing and feel her hair touching his cheek.

"Everyone and their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, siblings and other assorted distant relatives," she rambled quietly. He half-suspected she had dragged herself from whatever bed she had been pushed into. A quick inspection of her bandaged clad body was testimony of that. "Aethya was saying the matriarchs want to talk to you first thing in the morning but I'd say be careful because I think some matriarchs want your babies so I'm tagging along. Cortez mentioned some temporary government and what not. Wrex wants your permission to go off to whatever Krogan do once wars are over. I'm thinking destroying debris since that's pretty much all they can destroy without annoying everyone."

That felt nice to hear. Comfortable like a very used shirt.

"Business as usual?"

"With a side dish of you being the obvious result to every problem."

It was selfish to feel Anderson's absence so very strongly because of this, wasn't it? He stared down at the flash of red against the white gown he was wearing, trying to ignore that reality.

"What about you?"

"I'm not a problem solver. I'm a violent problem crusher."

"That's not what I meant," he corrected and he was quite sure she didn't need that correction at all. "You really scared me."

Clara's face stopped trying to meld into his chest and entered his eyesight. Her blue eyes were streaked lightly with red, her tanned skin had been rendered black and red in several places with purple making an appearance in between, her red hair had been chopped but even that wasn't enough to hide the burnt ends. Steven found that he wanted to speak, to tell her exactly how scared he had been right at the last moment.

If he was conventional, he would have. But they weren't and that was just fine too.

Instead, he pulled her closer, close enough to force his battered arm around her, close enough to kiss her, to feel the scent of medigel and the touch of gunpowder she never quite seemed to get rid of. Steven took his time with every motion because now, they had the time. They had the time of their lifetimes without Reapers lurking at every corner.

Shame about the lack of a lock on the door. And the setting. And Doctor Chakwas who had become very aware of their dalliance over the last years. He didn't need to tug Clara aside to know it had been the older woman to push the door open, especially when her no-nonsense voice crashed the single romantic moment he had ever managed to invoke near Clara.

"Shepard. What in the world are you doing?"

"About to sex up the Admiral right on this hospital bed, can't you see? That's exactly what I'm up to. Now shhh. Out. Lock the door."

The two women began arguing about appearances, making sure to warn everyone in the vicinity that he was well and awake. With some luck the Matriarchs would be right outside. He really didn't feel like siring any blue skinned children any time soon. And how would he keep a bunch of Krogan occupied before they destroyed the rest of the planet…? The Admiral covered his eyes at that and relaxed, smiling for no apparent reason.

Yes. The more things changed.


End file.
